All turned. There, standing unconcernedly in the doorway, was a native streaked with sweat, his eyes roving from face to face, a heavy fold of skin hanging in the slit lobe of one ear. Several of the camp-boys stood behind him uncertainly. Once more he repeated the Kiswahili greeting.
"Hodi!"
"Karibu," grunted Krausz; and then in English: "Who are you? What is it?"
"Bwana Hammer?" came the laconic query.
"That's me!" exclaimed the American. "What do you want?"
The Kiswahili looked him over for a second, then nodded as if to himself and drew the skin from his ear-lobe. From it he took a small packet and handed it to the American, after which, not deigning to say another word, he turned and stalked away.
"Well, that's a funny proposition!" exclaimed Hammer, staring at the heavy little object in his hand. The others said nothing, but Krausz smoked furiously as he watched. Out of sheer decency Hammer felt that he mast open the thing before them, and proceeded to do so, wondering greatly what it was and why the bearer had not been more loquacious.
Unwrapping a heavy fold of tissue-paper, he caught a little silver ring that leaped out into his hand. It was a cheap thing enough, and he remembered having seen just such things sold to tourists at Port Said, with "Arabic initials engraved while you wait."
Sure enough, looking closer at it, he perceived a thin tracery on the signet side; but his slight knowledge of Arabic did not extend to reading the language, and he passed it over to the doctor with a surprised laugh.
"Can you read Arabic, doctor?"